Dorion Gray Chapter IX: The Picture Read by Alexandre Zamor 'A face without a heart.' 'You're going to be good?' said Lord Henry. 'Don't tell me that. You're wonderful as you are. Please don't change.' His long, white fingers played with a flower on the table. It was spring in London, and the two friends were having dinner at Lord Henry's house. Dorian Gray shook his head. 'No, Harry, I've done too many terrible things in my life, and I'm going to change. I began my good life yesterday, in the country.' 'My dear boy,' smiled Lord Henry. 'Everybody can be good in the country. There's nothing to do in the country, so it's impossible to do anything bad. But tell me, how did you begin your good life?' 'There was a girl in a village. A very beautiful girl, an honest, country girl. She loved me, and was ready to come away with me yesterday, but I said no. I refused to destroy her young life, and I've left her as honest as I found her.' Lord Henry laughed. 'You've left her with a broken heart, you mean. How can she be happy now with a country boy, after she has known you?'- 'Don't, Harry!' cried Dorian. 'Can you never be serious? I'm sorry that I told you now. Let's talk about other things. What's been happening in London?' 'Oh, people are still discussing poor Basil and how he disappeared. I don't know why, because there are plenty of other things that they can talk about - my wife has run away with another man, Alan Campbell has killed himself . . .' 'What do you think has happened to Basil?' asked Dorian slowly. 'I've no idea,' answered Lord Henry. 'The English police report that Basil went to Paris on the midnight train on the ninth of November, but the French police say that he never arrived in Paris at all. If Basil wants to hide himself, I really don't care. And if he's dead, I don't want to think about him. Death is the only thing that really frightens me - I hate it.' 'Harry, don't people say that . . . that Basil was murdered?' said Dorian. 'Some of the newspapers say so,' replied Lord Henry, 'but who would want to murder poor Basil? He wasn't clever enough to have enemies.' 'What will you say, Harry, if I tell you that I murdered Basil?' asked Dorian. He watched his friend carefully. Lord Henry smiled. 'No, my dear Dorian, murder wouldn't please you. You like a different kind of pleasure. And you should never do anything that you cannot talk about after dinner.' He lifted his coffee cup. 'What happened to the fine portrait that Basil painted of you? I haven't seen it for years. Didn't you tell me that it was stolen? What a pity!' 'Oh, I never really liked it,' said Dorian. 'I prefer not to think about it.' For a while the two men were silent. Then the older man lay back in his chair and looked at Dorian with half closed eyes. 'Tell me how you have kept your youth and your wonderful beauty, Dorian. You must have some secret. I'm only ten years older than you, and I look like an old man. But you haven't changed since the day when I first met you What a wonderful life you've had!' 'Yes,' said Dorian slowly, 'it's been wonderful, Harry, but I'm going to change it now. You don't know everything about me.' His friend smiled. 'You cannot change to me, Dorian. You and I will always be friends.' Dorian stood up. 'I'm tired tonight, Harry. I must go home. I'll see you at lunch tomorrow. Goodnight.' At the door he stopped for a moment and looked back, but then he turned and went out without another word. At home he thought about his conversation with Lord Henry. Could he really change, he wondered? He had lived an evil life, and had destroyed other people's lives as well. Was there any hope for him? Why had he ever made that wish about the picture? He had kept his youth and beauty, but he had paid a terrible price for it. His beauty had destroyed his soul. He picked up a mirror and stared at his face. What was he now? A face without a heart. Suddenly he hated his own beauty, and dropped the mirror on the floor where it broke into many small pieces. James Vane, Basil Hallward, Sybil Vane - these deaths were not important to him now. It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could change that. He must think of himself 'Perhaps,' he thought, 'if I live a better life, the picture will become less ugly.' He remembered the pretty village girl - he had not destroyed her young life. He had done one good thing. Perhaps the picture had already begun to look better. He went quietly upstairs to the locked room. Yes, he would live a good life, and he need not be afraid any more of the evil face of his soul. But when he uncovered the picture, he gave a cry of pain. There was no change. The face in the picture was still terrible - more hateful, if possible, than before - and the red on the hand seemed brighter, like new blood. He stared at the picture with hate and fear in his eyes. Years ago he had loved to watch it changing and growing old; now he could not sleep because of it. It had stolen every chance of peace or happiness from him. He must destroy it. He looked round and saw the knife that had killed Basil Hallward. 'Now it will kill the artist's work,' he said to himself. 'It will kill the past, and when that is dead, I will be free.' He picked up the knife and dug it into the picture. There was a terrible cry, and a loud crash. The servants woke, and two gentlemen, who were passing in the road below, stopped and looked up at the house. A policeman came by, and they asked him: 'Whose house is that?' 'Mr Dorian Gray's, sir,' was the answer. The two gentlemen looked at each other, then turned away from the house and walked on. Inside the house the servants talked in low, frightened voices. After some minutes they went up to the room. They knocked, but there was no reply. They called out. Nothing. They could not open the door, so they climbed down from the roof and got in through the window. Against the wall they saw a fine portrait of the young Dorian Gray, in all his wonderful youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, with a knife in his heart. His face was old and ugly and yellow with disease. Only the rings on his fingers told them who he was.